


Definitely Once

by graves_expectations



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations
Summary: A little fic based on my silly tags onthis one tumblr post.





	Definitely Once

Percival Graves is renowned for being able to hold his liquor. It’s a trait that Tina has witnessed first-hand, although she knows that his tolerance is _not_ limitless as the rumours go. Percival just has a good trick that only she and Queenie (by extension, as with all things) know about.

He’s always had something of a tradition when it comes to the Aurors under his command: instead of letting them wring their hands and dwell on their failures, he takes them out for drinks right when they’re at their lowest. He lets them get absolutely shit-faced and pats their shoulders and then he takes them home and tells them they need to move the hell on now, that this instance was the only pity party he was giving them.

He did it for her after the incident with the Second Salemers that got her booted out of his department. He kept the alcohol flowing the whole night, but he stayed about as unruffled as ever even as he matched her drink for drink. Or so she thought. She hadn’t known then—would have had no way of even _guessing_ , considering how much alcohol _she_ imbibed—that he swapped out at least every other alcoholic drink with a soft one.

When he had told her with a laugh that he did not _actually_ have an impossibly high tolerance for alcohol but rather a proficiency with sleight of hand and inebriated onlookers, she had groaned at how obvious it was. At last she knew how he always had the presence of mind to get his people home safely.

It’s little details like that which make him more man than myth to her now. They’re friends, _family_ even, after years of working together and all they’d been through following what happened with Grindelwald. That was why she asked him to give her away at her wedding to Newt.

“You want me to do what?” he’d asked in return, not even glancing up from the paperwork spread on his office desk, as was his custom. From the lack of colour in his tone, he hadn’t even been listening.

“I _said_ : will you give me away at my wedding?”

The sound of his fancy silver fountain pen hitting wood made her smile. It was rare she managed to shock him into dropping things.

“Goldstein,” he’d said at length, the use of her surname a clear attempt to distance her from him. It wouldn’t wash with her—she knew his tactics. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Your investigative skills must be slipping if you can’t tell when I’ve asked you twice now.”

He had levelled her with a protracted _look_ at that, keen eyes assessing, eyebrows giving his consternation away plainly. Then he had looked back down at his paperwork and took up his pen, face smooth again.

“Surely you have a male relative who would be better suited to the task.”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re a modern witch, Tina. I would have thought you’d be asking Queenie.”

Tina had shrugged. “Queenie will be too busy trying not to cry the whole time. I mean, she’d be crying with just her own thoughts about the whole affair. If anyone else has thoughts that require a handkerchief out she’ll be doomed.”

That was something of an exaggeration, but Queenie _would_ have a lot to deal with throughout the ceremony and the reception, and she had been the one to propose the idea of asking Percival in the first place.

Percival grumbled something about needing to think about it and Tina had all but skipped out of his office knowing that was as good as acceptance. She also knew that deep, _deep_ down, he was pleased she’d asked him.

“Do I have to give a speech?” was his wary question when he turned up at her house and stiffly accepted the invitation a couple of days later.

“Only if you want to,” she’d said, Queenie giggling in the background as she picked up Newt’s horrified imaginings of how _that_ might go.

Percival had seemed equally uncomfortable with the idea. “I’ll think about it,” he said again, and this time it was almost certainly a resounding ‘NO’.

So, between his (good, but not implausible) tolerance for alcohol and his displeasure at the thought of giving a speech, Tina is extremely surprised when she watches him get up from their table at the wedding reception and trip over his own feet slightly as he _goes on stage_ right after Theseus had just had them all in stitches with some tales of Newt’s antics trying to find and study his fantastic beasts.

When he gets into position, Percival points his wand at his throat and mutters, “ _Sonorus_.”

Tina has been watching him and he’s been drinking steadily throughout the reception, way past a sensible cut-off point. Instead of becoming loud or brash though, he’d just retreated into himself, getting quieter and more pensive as time wore on.

He’s also been stealing glances at poor Credence across the table more and more obviously until he was no longer _stealing_ them at all. That implied a level of furtiveness he had passed being capable of several drinks ago.

Her heart goes out to him: it _has_ been a while since he’s seen Credence, who had come back to New York a year ago for the first time since his incorporeal form followed Newt blindly onto a ship bound for England. Whole again, healthier and happier—Credence is quite the sight to behold these days. And behold him Percival has (jealously, cautiously) every time they’ve met since his return.

With all prior caution thrown to the wind in Percival’s tipsy state though, Credence is clearly very conscious of the attention being lavished upon him, going by the blush on his face and the fiddling of his hands that’s gone on all evening.

Tina knows their dancing around one another has been going on a long time overall. Even before they finally met again in person last year, they had been writing to one another with great regularity while Credence was on the other side of the Atlantic with Newt. That was something Newt told her that Credence had shared with him. Percival had never said a word about the correspondence to _her_.

“It’s personal,” Queenie had said in her infuriatingly _right,_ emotionally clever way when she caught Tina’s hurt over the matter. “So personal that it’s private, Teenie. You know how he is.”

It’s hardly private tonight. Percival’s adoration is threaded through him like the rose through his buttonhole.

Where before the idea of Percival and Credence forming some kind of relationship concerned her for Credence’s sake, knowing his history, she’s actually more concerned for _Percival_  in a way now, seeing him so disarmed like this. Meanwhile, Credence is more self-assured every time she claps eyes on him, even if he does still retain his shyness.

On the stage, Percival is starting his address. “I just wanted to say a few words,” he says, “although I wasn’t planning on giving a speech.”

His words are bumping into one another at the edges. Newt’s hand, already holding Tina’s, suddenly squeezes tight.

On her other side, Queenie gives a breathless little laugh. “It’ll be okay, honey,” she tells Newt in a whisper. “He’s not going to take the chance to threaten you if you hurt Teenie. He’s got other things on his mind.”

Tina relaxes hearing that. She knows Percival (even verging on drunk) wouldn’t have the lack of grace to cause some kind of scene at her wedding, but she understands Newt’s trepidation. Percival can be mercurial at the best of times and adding copious amounts of both Firewhisky and the regular kind into the mix could easily spell trouble.

“You can get a read on him?” she asks her sister in an undertone, eyeing Percival as he opens his mouth but no words come out. He’s just staring at Credence again.

He’s going to be _so_ embarrassed tomorrow. Ordinarily, the thought would give Tina an unholy amount of glee. Now, she’s just anxious on his behalf.

“Go ahead, sugar,” Queenie says warmly to him, ignoring Tina. “You got a lot of good things to say.”

Percival sways on the spot, looks around for where the voice had come from, and _smiles_ when he realises it’s Queenie. Percival Graves is not a smiler. Or, at least, not like this: all crinkled skin around the eyes and teeth on show. He’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, satisfied quirk of one side of the mouth kind of guy.

He seems to take courage at Queenie’s comment, visibly steeling himself to continue. Now _Tina_ is the one gripping Newt’s hand. Mercy Lewis, what is he going to say?

“Those of you who know me probably think of me as someone with little time for love,” he says, looking around at the crowd. His gaze lands on Credence and settles there once again. Tina looks over at him herself and sees he’s still a brilliant shade of red. “Stick in the mud Director Graves, married to the job.”

Someone gives a nervous laugh. Tina just knows it’ll  be one of her fellow Aurors.

“But I have…” Percival pauses, uncertain. He glances at Queenie and she nods at him. “I have been in love. Definitely. Definitely once. I… It...”

Tina’s heart plummets to hear him struggling to open up like this. Whatever impulse drove him to get on the stage and start speaking about love, of all things, is clearly warring with his innate personality, which is one that _does not do things like this_.

A lot of the guests are ill at ease watching him flounder too. This is a marked transformation from the serious, proud man who walked Tina down the aisle and passed her fingers from the crook of his elbow into Newt’s waiting palm. Even his appearance reflects how acutely vulnerable he’s become—his tie has come loose around his throat, his jacket has been discarded somewhere, and he’s clearly put his hand through his hair enough times that the pomade-stiffened strands are falling over his brow.

“It doesn’t make _sense_ ,” Percival continues at last, a doleful frown marring his features. “Love gives you the strength of heroes _and_ it makes you as weak as a newborn. It makes you brave, but it cripples you with fear. You can’t sleep at night because you’re being driven mad with it, but sometimes it’s the only thing that gives you rest. It’s awful.”

Here Percival breaks off to huff a brief laugh. No one joins him. Everyone in the whole room seems to be holding their breath.

“And it’s wonderful,” Percival says, voice suddenly gone small and soft in a way Tina doubts many here have ever heard from him before. “It’s—loving someone—it’s the greatest privilege in life. And if they love you in return, then that’s the greatest _luck_ in life. Newt and Tina here… well, they’re the luckiest people in this room.”

He goes quiet again, turning his head away from Credence at last to flash another uncharacteristic smile in their direction. This one is so gentle that Tina thinks she’ll remember it for the rest of her days. Beside her, Newt is giving her a similar expression and Tina reflects it at him. When she does, she feels the threat of tears prickling in her eyes.

The sincerity in Percival’s disinhibited speech has taken away any lingering doubts over whatever his intentions towards Credence may be, at least. The abused waif she knew from two years ago is altered beyond recognition anyway now, and he’s a young man capable of making his own choices. They’ll just have to sort it all out between themselves.

Queenie would be proud of her thought process, she feels, and she turns to find her sister is beaming at her exactly as she’d expected.

“I should probably stop now,” Percival murmurs, “I think I might have had a bit too much to drink. Everyone, please raise your glasses to the bride and groom. Wait, where’s mine?”

A champagne glass arcs precariously through the air into his palm, a few drops of liquid spilling out when it tips too far one way. It’s the worst wandless summoning charm Tina has ever seen him display.

“You’re cut off after this one,” Queenie calls to him. “Magic _and_ drinks!”

“Oh,” he says. “All right. The bride and groom, anyway.”

The room echoes the sentiment, minus the ‘anyway’, and then bursts into (rather relieved) applause. Tina claps until her hands hurt, heart over-full when Percival grimaces at the attention and gives a clumsy little bow.

He only falters once as he moves to get off the stage. Unexpectedly, Credence jumps to his feet and goes to Percival’s side to guide him down the steps, one hand fitted around his upper arm and the other curled around his waist. Percival gapes at him like he’s never seen anything more miraculous, following Credence’s lead without hesitation.

“Oh,” Queenie breathes, “ _finally_.”

 

* * *

 

Tina and Newt hadn’t seemed too bothered when Credence had told them he was leaving to help Percival (who’d unfortunately managed to snag _another_ drink and downed it right after doing the same with his champagne) back to his hotel room. As a matter of fact, the happy couple had given him wide, knowing smiles and wished them both well.

Queenie had _winked_ at him. “You take care of him now,” she’d said in a mock-serious voice.

“I intend to,” he’d replied, but with nothing even _close_ to teasing in his tone.

Credence had spent the evening up to that point in a helplessly flustered state, with Percival Graves’s dark eyes on him every single time he checked. He’d wondered dazedly how there could be any blood left in the rest of his body considering how much was being diverted to his cheeks for the whole time Percival had been staring at him.

He hadn’t ever known Percival to be anything more than a casual drinker, so he was surprised to see him amassing empty glasses quite relentlessly during the reception, almost as if he had nerves to settle. Credence couldn’t imagine what _he_ had to be nervous about. After all, _Credence_ was the one being examined with a burning intensity and no understanding of why.

Then Percival had given that speech. He’d talked so genuinely about being in love, all while holding Credence’s gaze the entire time.

Maybe Credence had started to understand the staring then. At least, he’d started to _hope_ he was understanding correctly.

He had to find out one way or another and so here he is: wandering through hotel corridors with the probable love of his life wrapped around him like the tentacles of Newt’s Marmite. At least Percival isn’t glowing like the Marmite does, although Credence feels like _he_ might as well be for how pathetically happy he is to be held so close to him like this.

He often feels like he might as well be glowing in the other man’s presence, to tell the truth. Sometimes he thinks his feelings for Percival must be pouring out of him, that everyone must be able to see the evidence of his devotion. As it is, it’s only Queenie Goldstein who can do just that and, luckily for Credence, she has more discretion than any priest in a confessional. Even if she does sometimes like to tease and gently prod people into going after what they want.

“Credence,” Percival says, hot breath fanning over his neck where he’s clinging to him.

Lord, give him strength.

“Yes?”

“You’re amazing.”

“Thank you, you’ve told me seven times now.”

“Also, I can’t remember my room number.”

“It’s nineteen. Tina reminded you before we left, remember?”

“Oh. See, you really _are_ amazing because you remember what I can’t. And your hair smells like Amorden- Amor _ten_ tia does.”

“That’s nice, thank you.”

He’s pretty sure Amortentia smells of the things you like, rather than things smelling of Amortentia, but he’s not going to get into that. Bland “thank you”s are the best defence Credence has against the absolute _onslaught_ of compliments Percival has been bestowing upon him during their short journey through the hotel. They don’t discourage Percival in the slightest though, to Credence’s dismay.

He jumps when the tip of Percival’s nose rubs along his neck. “Your skin is so soft. Why is your skin so soft?”

“F-fifteen, seventeen... right! Here we are,” Credence says, relieved that he might get his personal space back soon and be able to _think_ again. “Do you have your key?”

Percival removes his right arm from around Credence’s shoulders and fumbles in the pockets of his waistcoat and then his trousers before lifting up the desired object with a crooked grin.

“Well done,” Credence praises indulgently, shocked at his own daring. The liberties he’s taking here are ones he could never manage if this was the sober Percival he’s used to and still in awe of. He can’t help it though—even if he doesn’t know how to deal with the affection, he’s just so _amused_ by Percival in this state. Here’s one of the most powerful wizards in America and he’s sweetly reliant on _Credence_ , all while paying him the most ridiculous (but still highly flattering) compliments.

When they stagger over the threshold together, Percival disentangles himself right away, meanders over to the bed, and then throws himself at it with a sigh, landing face down.

“Comfy,” he mumbles, the sound muffled from where he’s speaking into the mattress.

“I don’t want you to suffocate after I put so much work into getting you back here in one piece,” Credence says with a laugh. He crosses the room and pokes Percival in the side. “Come on, roll over.”

Percival does so, turning onto his back and looking up at Credence with wide, mournful eyes.

Credence laughs again. “What’s that look for?” he asks.

“I worry… do you even know how lovely you are?” 

Percival’s hand comes up to cup his face and all at once any mirth Credence found in the situation is gone. He can’t quite hold back his gasp when a callused thumb strokes back and forth over his cheekbone with maddening tenderness.

Really, he has to put a stop to this now.

“Percival,” he says, gently catching that dangerous hand in his own and laying it back down by Percival’s side. “Percival, you’re drunk.”

“‘m not.”

“You very much are, I’m afraid.”

“You’re still perfect.”

Credence, having only had a couple of butterbeers and one glass of champagne, feels far warmer than he ought to. His heartbeat drums in his ears and he has to look away from Percival, fixing his gaze on one wood-panelled wall. 

“I’m far from that.”

A hand finds its way to his face again and turns him back to make eye contact. Percival gives him an exaggerated frown, the shape of his lips just shy of a pout. “No, you’re perfect. A vision of loveliness that I hardly deserve.”

Giving in to a wicked thought that says Percival may not even remember this tomorrow, Credence lets himself touch Percival’s face in return, splaying careful, minutely trembling fingers over his jaw. Percival presses into the contact at once, cat-like, his eyes falling shut in apparent contentment.

“You deserve plenty,” Credence tells him. “You deserve better than someone broken like me.”

“What if I’m broken too?”

His eyes are open again and they hold that same melancholy look. His mouth curves down just slightly and Credence sweeps his fingertips across the skin right beside it, hoping to soothe that expression away as he considers his response. 

“I think your speech tonight showed you’re not beyond repair,” he eventually says.

“I meant it.”

Credence smiles at him. “I know you did.” His heart rate picks up when he realises there’s something he still has to ask about that. “You said you’d been in love once.”

“Definitely once,” Percival echoes quietly.

“What happened? How did that story end?”

Percival gives him a slow blink, eyes heavy-lidded. “I don’t know,” he answers. “Seeing as it’s not anywhere near over yet.”

Credence has to close his eyes and take a moment for himself, hearing that. But Percival isn’t finished.

“The ending depends on you,” he says.

There’s so much Credence wants to say in return. To actually put voice to the words though would mean laying himself bare before Percival, and he’s not sure he wants to do that while Percival is as drunk as he is.

But… if Percival wakes up tomorrow and they go back to how they were before, what then? What if he decides that this whole thing was a mistake, an alcohol-induced kind of madness? Then Credence will have missed his chance to tell him how he feels.

He wants Percival to _know_ , even if nothing changes because of it.

“If it’s up to me,” Credence says. He takes a steadying breath and starts again. “If it’s up to me, then it won’t end. The story will just be me loving you forever.”

Percival sits up—too fast, judging by the grimace—and takes both of Credence’s hands in his. “I’m too drunk for this,” he whispers. “Why are we doing this now?”

Credence leans forward, touching his forehead to Percival’s and letting out a soft laugh between them. The admission has made him feel as light as a feather. Free. “So you do admit you’re drunk.”

“I’m so drunk,” Percival actually _whines_ at him. Credence can feel the frown on his face where their brows are pressed together. Percival drops his hands to hold his face instead. “Come back to me tomorrow, we’ll do this right. Credence, _promise_ me you’ll come back to me tomorrow. I’ll be the man you deserve then, I swear.”

“You already are,” Credence breathes. He tips his head up a little so their noses brush and their lips come tantalisingly close together without meeting—promise made.

The scent of whisky coming off of Percival makes him regain his senses and when Percival sways further into him, Credence takes that as his cue to pull back. Percival’s hands reach for him and Credence has to stand up and get off the bed altogether to avoid getting drawn back into his embrace.

“I should go,” he says, “before we do anything we’ll regret.”

“I never would,” Percival insists.

“Neither would I.”

Percival’s hands extend towards him again. “Then _stay_ ,” he pleads. “I’ll be a gentleman; just stay here with me tonight.”

Credence finds he lacks the fortitude to deny the request. After all, why should he deny them both something they want? He’s dreamt of sleeping beside Percival since he used to sleep in a cold room above a lonely church. He’s wanted this for too long now to not jump at the chance when it arises.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s get your shoes off then.”

They end up getting into the bed together still wearing their shirts and trousers because the idea of undressing any further made Credence’s head swim as though _he_ was the intoxicated one.

Percival presses close to him the second they’re under the covers, plastering himself along the length of Credence’s back, arms winding around him tight as though afraid he might disappear the second he closes his eyes.

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles drowsily. “Tomorrow’s the start of that forever you promised me.”

It started long ago, for Credence, but he understands Percival’s meaning. He takes one of Percival’s hands from around his waist and brings it up to his mouth to kiss the back of it, slotting his fingers between Percival’s before he guides the hand back down so it’s holding him again.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats.


End file.
